Forgotten Ghosts

By Cass Kay

Vianna has finally stopped running from her legacy, but she refuses to be a part of Salem's daily drama. Instead, she's content to work in her garden, bond with the family familiar, and make candles. 

When an old friend reaches out about ghostly e

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dream the Dream
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986074535

Book preview

1

Stalkers and Coffee

Vianna was being watched. Stalked, actually. The hairs on her arms raised, dimpling her skin. The reaction from her body wasn’t an exact science that definitively proved anything, but as she shoved the tip of her garden spade into the cold soil, she knew.

Crouching there, on her hands and knees in an upturned flower bed, she pretended everything was normal, that she was none the wiser. But only half of her attention was on the ground; the other half was on the movement in her peripheral vision. She’d worked herself into a damp sweat despite the crisp autumn air, and her long-sleeved shirt clung to her skin. 

She sat back on her heels, grabbed a tulip bulb from the bag at her side, and plopped it into the first hole. Her stalker froze, hidden by the trees on the other side of the fence. Vianna’s demon familiar, Shuck, rumbled in her chest. Being bonded to a demon was a new experience, and Vianna was still adjusting. He sent a wave of eagerness through her. He wanted to handle the threat, but she preferred methods that didn’t involve a bloody, mutilated mess. Shuck had bonded with the last eleven generations of Roots witches, all of whom could reasonably be categorized as paid assassins. His methods for handling situations weren’t something Vianna trusted.

With a scrunched nose, she kept her focus on the task, resisting the urge to look into the trees. She emptied the rest of the bag, bulb by bulb, into the row of holes she had prepared, scooped soil over each, then smashed in a cut section of chicken wire over the top. She spread a layer of compost, then sprinkled cayenne pepper as the last step.

Giving in to the urge, she glanced over her shoulder toward the trees. Black, beady eyes stared back. His bushy tail framed a plump, furry body. He should be plenty plump after the amount of bulbs he’d gorged on in the past few weeks. The squirrel—aka her stalker—had shown no discrimination in his pilferings; all flavors of bulbs were succulent treasures in his greedy paws. It was an all-out war, and Vianna was losing. Badly. 

The hinges on the porch screen door squeaked as it swung open. How long have you been out here?

Vianna swiveled around. I don’t know. The sun was up. Almost.

Dee stood on the deck wearing a kimono covered with purple hibiscus and a matching hair wrap. She cupped a steaming mug, showcasing her matching manicure. The woman was a goddess with coffee—all drinks, really. In the past three months of living together, Vianna had learned not to question when Dee put a drink in her hand. Mother’s gasoline-grade moonshine sat untouched in the pantry, along with Vianna’s ability to hide away in a mason jar. She was working on herself: facing things instead of running, opening up in order to maintain real relationships. Luckily, Dee was patient. Mostly. They’d had a few moments.

I can hear you rummaging through the house at all hours. It’s mind-boggling that you don’t think sleep is amazing. Dee stood at the edge of the porch.

Vianna gathered the leftover supplies from her war strategy. I never said sleep isn’t amazing. I would love to sleep as much as you do. 

Explain to me again why you don’t?

I don’t think insomnia is exactly explainable. The new nightmares of Mother burying Vianna alive weren’t helping. But since her insomnia had plagued her long before this newest round of night terrors, she couldn’t blame her restlessness on them. Plus, mentioning them to Dee would only start a full investigation into every nightmare Vianna had ever had, making her relive each one in vivid detail. She’d rather not. Not this early.

Dee turned with a flourish, her satin robe fluttering around her calves, and headed back into the house. Vianna stood and brushed away the dirt clumps that clung to the knees of her jeans. Her stalker had vanished, trying to lead her into a false sense of security. She hoped the cayenne pepper not only burned his tongue but got stuck in the crevices of his tiny little paws.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee lured Vianna inside. She took off her shoes at the door and moved to the sink, washing her hands with a worn bar of homemade lavender-lemon soap. On the counter sat her old chipped mug that wafted the faintest hint of cinnamon. 

That twattle-basket yowls louder than a coyote. Not every neighboring ear needs to be privy to your life. Grandma Susannah stood in the archway between the kitchen and living room. Vianna didn’t even bother looking over her shoulder because some things never changed. Grandma would be wearing the same brown peasant dress, dirt-smudged apron, and thick rope noose around her neck like an oversized necklace. Ghosts didn’t change their clothes. 

Twattle-basket was one of the many names Grandma had used over the past few months in reference to Dee. Vianna wasn’t entirely sure what they all meant, but she suspected they centered around someone who was loud or gossipy. Regardless, Dee’s brand of loud was a relief for Vianna, replacing the weird creaks that filled the silence, and Vianna was grateful to have her as a roommate. She dried her hands on one of the dish towels with embroidered rainbows that Dee had ordered online, then scooped up her mug of liquid heaven. 

She should focus on her talents instead of waggling her tongue, Grandma huffed. Put her on the cauldron.

Vianna grinned into her mug as she walked through Grandma, ignoring her. What Grandma really wanted was to learn the secrets of potion making. The art was finicky, and it was a rarity for someone to be as competent as Dee. Grandma clicked her tongue before fading from the room.

Dee sat in the living room, curled up in the same corner of the couch as always, closest to the fireplace. Black-and-white photos of witches past lined the mantel. They were among the few things that had survived Hurricane Dee in the Great Redecoration. There was no conversation about keeping or removing them; they just… belonged.

Dee nodded her chin toward a newspaper resting on the coffee table. Check out the front page.

Every bit of news interested Dee: new species of bees, Sephora’s latest seasonal color, the real estate rates in California, or any new rock formation containing evidence of evolution. Hailing from a long line of coven historians made information in all forms invaluable. Her thirst for knowledge was admirable, but sometimes overwhelming. Summaries were a good compromise. It’s cold, Vianna said, shuffling toward the fireplace. I’ll make a fire while you give me the CliffsNotes.

Not this one. Dee scrunched her face. It’s not pleasant, but I don’t want you learning about it elsewhere. Fire first. My toes are ice cubes. Starting fires was Dee’s kryptonite. She tried but somehow only filled the house with smoke. 

Vianna set her mug on the coffee table, then crouched by the hearth. Pine cones rubbed in nutmeg, cinnamon, and other fall spices were piled into a pyramid in the firebox—fire starters were one of her insomnia-induced hobbies. She pulled on her connection to Shuck, waiting for the deep rumble that would reverberate through her bones. A current of energy started from beneath the marking on her collarbone, spreading down her arm, then sparking like electricity at her fingertips. 

She snapped her index finger against her thumb, and the wick in the center of the cones sparked with fire. Tendrils of smoke twirled into the air, filling the room with the scent of autumn spices. 

The flames grew quickly, and waves of heat warmed the room. Vianna stood and headed toward the couch, checking for any remnants of gardening that still clung to her before flopping onto the middle cushion. Dee was not-so-patiently staring, nails tapping on her mug. Vianna grabbed the newspaper and rested against the back of the couch with a huff. The front page featured a photo of a couple standing on the steps of the Salem Essex Museum. 

Vianna stared at the photo, speechless.

Charles Barton, the owner of the museum and sexual predator, stood next to Original Blood Coven member Tiphonie Parker. The headline read, Essex Museum to Display Exhibit on Elizabeth Derby West. 

She didn’t bother reading the article; the picture was enough. She forced down the lump in her throat. Tiphonie was a rotten brat, but no one deserved Charles. Not to mention the battle between their mothers that had resulted in the death of Tiphonie’s mother, and the institution of Charles’s in the Danvers State Hospital.  

Dee sighed. We could dig a hole in the backyard. No one would miss him. Well, besides the coven purse strings.

Vianna tossed the paper into the fire, and it burst into a ball of blue light over the pinecones. An extra wave of heat pushed through the room.

Hey, I hadn’t finished reading that. Despite her outcry, Dee was already making swiping motions on her phone. 

His mother killed hers—right in front of her. Vianna glanced over her shoulder, toward the landing at the bottom of the stairs where it all had happened. The battle had sprouted from a missing page in the Roots family grimoire, a page that was still missing. That detail had been lost in the shuffle of funerals and coven politics, but Vianna hadn’t forgotten.

She can’t be that clueless. Vianna would never understand legacy witches, much less Tiphonie.

She’s all about getting the vote for coven mother. The Barton name can provide liquid cash, and that’s irresistible for a coven that has none. Dee pulled her feet underneath her and adjusted. 

Vianna scoffed. "And I guess everyone just forgot the obvious detail that the Barton name is the entire reason why the coven is broke."

And motherless, Dee added. "Plus, with Charles running for mayor, he’s looking to make sure the coven still backs him now that mother dearest is in the psych ward." 

Don’t remind me. The signs plastered throughout town with Charles’s trademark dimples were enough to make Vianna gag. They’d briefly dated, three dates precisely, before she knocked him over the head with a shovel in self-defense. They hadn’t spoken since. 

The theme song from Ghostbusters rang from the kitchen.  

Refill me while you’re up? Dee held out her mug with a wide grin. She’d changed the ringtone on Vianna’s phone, and they both knew it.

With a groan, Vianna pushed herself up, giving Dee a fake scowl and snagging her mug on the way to the kitchen. Her phone sat on the counter as it charged, and the screen lit with the name Tucker Etienne. He’d been gone all week for his sister’s wedding to some big shot down in New Orleans.

She set down the mugs and picked up her phone. Tuck? 

Hey, he answered. 

Vianna refilled the mugs with one hand and held the phone with the other. Your sister get hitched yet?

Almost. Tonight’s the night, not that you could tell. She’s more focused on finding every single gay man within a hundred-mile radius to throw at me. Apparently, if she’s getting married, her big brother needs to be heading down the aisle soon, too.

Vianna gave a snort at that. Tuck was work obsessed and didn’t seem all that interested in dating or marriage from what she saw. 

You busy? Tuck asked. I’ve got a favor to ask.

Maybe. She put the coffeepot back on the burner. Let’s hear it.

I need someone to check on Ashley.

Ashley? Vianna asked. Why?

Ashley worked at Tuck’s shop, Sticks and Bones. Although he owned the shop, she ran the front for tourists while he ran the back, where the real hoodoo happened. Vianna suspected the front shop paid for the back and was the entire reason Tuck bothered with tourists. In the past three months since moving back to Salem, she’d had weekly lunches with Tuck, and she couldn’t count how many times she’d waited while he helped some community member or another. She’d yet to see him charge even so much as a dime for any of it. 

I had a few clients ping me about weird things around the shop. I called Ashley, but she’s pretending like everything is normal. He hesitated. She sounded strange. Something is up.

"What kind of weird things are people seeing?"

There was a long pause on the other end. Vianna rested her hip against the counter as she waited.

Unfamiliar spirits, Tuck said. That explained the hesitancy. He knew Vianna saw ghosts, and he also knew how much she hated it. If it was just that, I’d wait until I got home tomorrow evening. But they also mentioned a surge of power in the aura around the shop. And maybe a feeling of ill intent. Something is up, and Denise will kill me if I miss her vows.

Very true. Vianna knew his sister, and she actually might kill him if he missed her wedding. She was big on family. 

Dee walked into the kitchen and took over with the coffee, adding in cream and using the cinnamon shaker. She tilted her head with raised brows in Vianna’s direction.

What exactly do you want me to do? Vianna asked Tuck. Even if the shop did have a ghost problem, she wasn’t sure what she could do about it. Seeing ghosts was not the same as exorcising them. She’d been able to banish ghosts from her property only because she’d had something from their physical body: a decaying hand for Nancy, the blood on a pair of scissors for the bathroom haunt, and her own blood had worked on her uncle in the upstairs bedroom.

You don’t have to do anything. Just swing by, then tell me what you see. I need someone to be my eyes so I know how serious this is. I’ll handle the rest.

Fine. Vianna sighed. I’ll stop by.

I owe you. 

Yeah, yeah. Talk soon. Vianna hung up.

Our very first case. Dee nudged a mug toward Vianna. 

Nope.

That’s not what you told Tuck.

Vianna scrunched her nose at Dee as she stretched out her sore neck muscles from working in the garden. 

The corners of Dee’s lips twitched. Where we going? 

It was easiest not to argue with her. Tuck’s shop. He thinks Ashley might have a ghost problem she’s not fessing up to. 

Ghosts? Dee squealed. That’s perfect for our first official paranormal investigation!

No, Vianna said. Absolutely not. We’re just swinging by to take a peek, then letting Tuck know what we see. No investigation required.

We’re going to need a good name. Give me at least forty minutes to get ready. Don’t leave without me. Dee narrowed her eyes at Vianna for emphasis before heading upstairs. "We better make it snappy, though. I’ve still got some prep to do for the market tonight, and you are coming."

The witch market was an annual free-for-all trade and barter for witches, cloaked with magic to keep humans unaware. Vianna was more than a little tempted to go. She could thin out the candle den from her overstock and make a few bucks in the process. But she’d need a booth to do that, and solitary witches couldn’t get booths. They were dispersed to covens only.

I’m not going to the market just so every Salem witch can glare at me, Vianna mumbled under her breath. She stalked back into the living room and stood by the fire. And I’m only taking a quick peek at Tuck’s shop to see what kind of ghosts we’re dealing with, she said out loud to no one.

There would be no witch market and no official paranormal investigation.

2

Red, White, and Blue

Sticks and Bones, Tuck’s store, was located smack in the middle of downtown on Essex Street. And to get there, they had to battle the thick crowds. The living bustled in clusters among the dead, which only Vianna could see. In every direction there were death loops, like walking through a town of macabre performers at a Shakespearean festival. There were both pistol and sword duels, carriage and car accidents, and, of course, bloodied fists and blades. 

She kept her focus downward. The view of her brown leather boots mucking through the golden leaves was far better than the death all around her. She squeezed through clusters of witches and non-witches alike with Dee right behind her, and it wasn’t until they were a few feet from a raised stage that realization dawned. The crowd wasn’t because of the tourist season. She stopped dead in her tracks.

In the center of a circular plaza was a stage where Tiphonie and the Ramsey twins stood. The trio gathered to the right of a podium, the twins in pressed, white business suits and Tiphonie in a red skirt suit. Behind them, tall banners read Mayor Barton in bold, patriotic colors. Local shops formed a backdrop: a tavern advertising fresh fish and chips, a crystal boutique, and a witchy home decor store.

Tiphonie smoothed her up-twist hairdo despite not having a single red hair out of place. When her eyes locked with Vianna’s, her shoulders slumped for a fraction of a moment, but then she lifted her chin and jerked her head away. The Ramsey twins, instead, doubled down with their glares. The one on the right flicked her thick, blond braid from her shoulder, and the other used two fingers to double-point at Vianna. Movement shifted from the sides of the stage in response. 

A huddle of older witches in scratchy-looking couch-fabric suits stepped from behind a banner. Their narrowed eyes followed the hand gesture from the Ramsey twin, focusing them on Vianna. Witch security. Looked like Charles was already backed in his political campaign by the Original Blood Coven. They must be confident that the Bartons would funnel funds back into the coven if they provided security and arm candy. 

Charles took to the podium in a black suit and red tie, his hair slicked to the side. He gave a large pearly smile, complete with dimples, and the crowd roared with applause. It was just her luck to stumble upon one of his campaign speeches. 

Ladies and gentlemen of Salem, new and familiar faces, I’m honored by your show of support. Charles’s voice boomed from the speakers. 

Memories suddenly flooded back: her head clogged with a magically induced fog, his hands slipping beneath her clothes, and his hot breath on her neck. She felt nauseous but planted her hands on her hips, refusing to hug herself and shrink into her sweater. She might feel